


Drunken Reverie

by spicyarnor



Series: The Prince And His Bodyguard [2]
Category: Trails of Cold Steel, 英雄伝説 閃の軌跡 | The Legend of Heroes: Sen no kiseki (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Mild CS3-influenced content please read note at top of fic, Pining, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 09:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyarnor/pseuds/spicyarnor
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Prince Olivert steals a bottle of wine to try for the very first time, and reminisces and ruminates over moments shared with Mueller in the past, and his deepening crush on the older boy. Unfortunately, drinking in excess can lead to some impulsive decisions...





	Drunken Reverie

**Author's Note:**

> I've finished CS3, so some of this fic was influenced by information from that game about more detailed circumstances of Olivier's past. This fic does not overtly state any detailed facts about this, but there are some strongly implied references to details surrounding the circumstances of his mother's death, what his life was like before coming to the palace, his relationships with the rest of the royal family, how long he has known Mueller for, etc. Also, Mueller's father's title is mentioned, although he is not named. Olivier's mother is not named either. There are no other CS3-related spoilers or information.
> 
> If you don't want to even have an inkling about any of these things, don't read! Alternatively, if you'd like spoilers on Olivier's past before reading, PM me. I think it would be perfectly fine to read this without knowing, though.

It's just a bottle of wine, but to sixteen-year-old Prince Olivert, it is a prized illicit treasure. 'Sutherland Vineyards, 1127', the label reads. It's older than he is - it predates even the Orbal Revolution, which he can scarcely imagine life without. Getting it out of the kitchen without notice was a bit of a challenge, but here he is, safely locking himself in his bedroom past curfew, his mischievous young siblings already tucked into bed, and he is nearly certain he won't get caught with it so long as he disposes of it properly afterwards.

He's seen servants open bottles of wine for his father, Priscilla, and various guests countless times, so he's come prepared with a corkscrew and manages to get the bottle open without incident. He holds the open bottle under his nose to get a whiff - it smells dark and mysterious, and he casts a furtive glance towards the door out of sheer paranoia. Yes, he should be able to safely enjoy this...

He doesn't have a wine glass, so Olivert sets the bottle down on the beautiful, gold inlaid wooden end table and gets up from his plush brown suede reading chair to fetch a fresh glass from the bathroom cabinet. It's a simple thing, a perfectly common faceted glass meant for drinking water, but it will do the job.

Olivert hums excitedly to himself as he sits back down, placing the glass on the tabletop and pouring himself a glass. It comes out a little fast - ooh, that's a little fuller than he meant to make it - but ah well, he'd figured he'd make a night of it anyway. It was too bad he didn't have someone to drink with... He figured Mueller would probably just scold him, but as disappointing as that is, more for him at least.

He presses the glass to his lips, taking a small sip, and practically coughs it up, eyes widening at the taste. It's so _bitter_ , yet with this underlying taste of sickly sweetness, like some kind of awful medicine. This can't possibly be all there is to it, he thinks, and keeps drinking.

After a few small mouthfuls, it's not quite as bad, though maybe not entirely to his taste just yet. He crosses his legs in his chair and sits up with the posture of a proper nobleman, raising his eyebrows as he swishes the glass around, pretending to be fancy. Well, he _is_ fancy now, isn't he? He's a proper Imperial prince with his own wing in a palace, even his outfit was carefully made by the best tailors in the Empire with only the finest materials, and the chandelier lighting his bedroom is heavy with crystals that probably took countless weeks to mine, polish and assemble. He may not be in line for the throne anymore, but it's not like he really wanted to rule an entire empire anyway.

Still, even though it's been years now since he first came to the palace, thinking about this makes his heart feel a bit heavy. Why are his thoughts wandering so much? He sighs, and takes another sip, closing his eyes. Mmm.... This feels _nice_. He can feel his tense muscles relaxing, and a sort of vague fuzziness encroaching upon the corners of his mind. It's sort of a warm feeling, like a calm, less exciting wave of love... This must be what the fuss is all about, he thinks, drinking more and allowing himself to sink back into the chair with a sigh.

By the time he's halfway through his glass he's smiling widely and humming Amber Amour to himself, feeling more than a bit happy and nostalgic. _Ah, if only Mueller were here..._ he finds himself thinking, chest dancing excitedly with longing as he thinks of him.

Beautiful, loyal, kind Mueller, always so serious and strict, but always there for him when it really counts. Olivier owed him his life. How could he have ever made it this far without him? He was everything Olivier admired but felt he couldn't be - he diligently applied himself to everything with so much focus, and always pushed the prince to do the same, believing him to be capable of more than even Olivier himself thought possible. Having him by his side was all that got him through some nights.

And he was so _handsome_. Not all delicate and refined like all the other nobles his age he'd been introduced to, but vital and strong and with sharp, piercing eyes that make the prince's heart nearly stop on a regular basis these days.

_Oh,_ Olivier knows fixating on this crush isn't something he should do - but he's fallen completely by now. His face is flushed hot and he doesn't know whether it's the wine or the thought of Mueller, standing close by, arms clasped stiffly behind his back, chest puffed out in perfect posture as he keeps his eyes on the horizon for any hint of danger.

"Mueller, sing with me!" Olivert had asked as they stood out on the balcony together earlier that day, strumming out the beginning of a rousing ballad.

Mueller had frowned, not turning from his formal posture, still looking out from where they stood. Trained eyes quickly scanned from towers to parapets, to any convenient corners that might harbor any would-be assailants. "You know I can't sing," he'd replied with a tired tone.

Olivier had had to stifle back a giggle. Mueller really _couldn't_ sing. It was glorious. He wanted so badly to hear his awful singing voice again. "I don't mind," he'd said, taking on a grand, soothing tone. "Music isn't about talent, it's about passion! Raise the voice that Aidios has blessed you with in harmony and love!" To dramatically accent his words the lute melody picked up, adding in another layer of harmony, intertwining beautifully.

"You just want to laugh at my voice again, don't you," the brunette had sighed, finally turning to stare at him. Ah, even having a slightly annoyed Mueller looking straight at him was a treat. "Music isn't about talent my ass. You were probably born playing that thing."

Olivier grinned, eyes closing in that way they did when he had thought of something he found particularly clever. "Yes, just like you were born with that sword up your--"

"I'll stick that lute somewhere similar if you finish that sentence," Mueller had quipped, frowning deeper. Olivier had just smiled wide, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh Aidios," Mueller groaned, leaning his folded arms against the balustrade, slumping over slightly. "Can't you just let me do my job?"

"I'm fine, Mueller," he'd assured him. "There are dozens of soldiers patrolling the palace, and you're armed with a sword anyhow. What could you do if you even spotted a sniper, throw your blade at them?"

"Bring you inside where it's safe," he'd replied firmly, standing up straighter, elbows locked, back still bent slightly to continue surveying below.

Olivier had looked him over, eyes fixing on his profile. Mueller's brow was furrowed and he was so serious about this, so dedicated to protecting him that bittersweet feelings welled up, but also he was so --

"You're being paranoid," he'd said, suddenly stopping his lute playing. "You don't need to go this far."

"Paranoid? If I'd been more paranoid before, don't you think that --"

Pain tugged at him, a grief that threatened to drag him down again as it always did, but no. No. He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully, a firm refusal.

"Mueller. We've been over this. It wasn't your fault. You were only a child."

Mueller breathed out, standing up and placing a hand to his face. "...I know. I'm sorry. Just, sometimes I _remember._ " He had a hissing intake of breath, then continued. "I... shouldn't have brought this up. Not to you."

Olivier remembered too. Olivier remembered far too often. But he would not let those memories win. "I'm fine," he'd said, a bit of a lie that he intended to make into truth. "Just sit with me. Alright?"

"Okay," Mueller agreed, and sat down at one of the outdoor chairs on the prince's balcony. Olivier sat in the other, and began to play a tune. A different one this time, a soft and hopeful song. He sang along, watching Mueller from time to time as he did, heart feeling lighter as the music took hold and his bodyguard's posture relaxed a bit, and as the singing part was over and the lute melody neared the end, Mueller turned and smiled at him. It was a complicated, sort of crooked smile, that showed sympathy, appreciation, and a bit of guilt. Olivier returned it in a similar way, but his eyes immediately went downcast to his fingers on the strings as he finished the tune. Mueller was disarming in so many ways. If only he knew how even that bittersweet look made Olivier's heart jump for just a moment.

"Come, Mueller," he had said then, plucking out the opening notes of Amber Amour, "Sing with me, now!" 

Mueller, for all his implied gratitude and apology, had not sung. Alas, Olivier thinks, sipping another bit of his wine, if only he had. Mmm, but now the wine tastes better, somehow, thinking of him like this. He drinks more, savoring the strange warmth of the chilled beverage that spreads throughout his body as he drinks. He feels a bit of a tingling in his limbs as he finishes the cup, and when he moves them they feel strangely loose and floppy...

He giggles, standing up. Ooooh, yes, everything feels... Different. Quite different. How does his father drink a whole glass of this and manage to act normal? It must be that "tolerance" he'd heard about, because Olivier, having drank just one glass, was now swaying pleasantly as he stood, looking at the familiar surroundings of his room with new eyes. Everything is so shiny, goodness. The chandelier above sparkles so beautifully it kind of hurts to look at, the well-polished floor gleams up at him in its reflective glory, and he feels a new appreciation for all the finery he is constantly surrounded with. He walks towards his bed, finding he can control his movements alright, but the motions feel smooth, his body light and so, so tall. He runs his palms over the plush down duvet, admiring the gleam of the gold threads that wind through the mostly crimson fabric, weaving out bold, royal patterns of heavily stylized swords and roses. It isn't as if things have really become more beautiful, he knows this, but this feeling... He sighs, sitting down on the edge of his bed and closing his eyes with a contented smile..

The moment is wonderful, but soon it is over, and opening his eyes, he sees the still quite full bottle of wine on the end table. Would perhaps a little more make the next moment _more_ wonderful? Well, it wouldn't be nearly as vast an improvement as if Mueller was here, he thinks, but he strides across the room with a spring in his step nonetheless.

He pours another glass, sinking back into the plush armchair once more, and takes a sip. Oh, how the taste has changed. He savors it, drinking it slowly, with sensuous appreciation. He pauses to lick a stray drop of wine off his lips, and finds himself wondering what Mueller's lips would feel like. Soft and warm, firm and passionate? Olivier has kissed a handful of girls before, ranging from timid pecks to passionate, long kisses with a tentative hint of tongue that resulted in the girl in question's very large older brother chasing him out of the entire district (thank Mueller for all that experience running long distances, or he might not have lived to tell the tale), but he has never kissed a boy, not on the lips anyway. Not that he doesn't find the idea exciting, oh no, the opportunity just has never presented itself. But a kiss with Mueller would be... His heart flutters as he closes his eyes and imagines the older boy, hands on his shoulders, looking at him with serious devotion, cheeks slightly flushed. His eyes catch on Olivier's mouth and he leans in, closer and closer, until their breath is overlapping and finally Mueller's lips are pressed against his, kissing him with longing and love, calloused yet gentle hands cupping his face.

Oh, just imagining such a moment in that much detail has his head spinning, dizzy with hormones, body absolutely alive and a bit of arousal building. Well, honestly, Olivier finds he basically _always_ has at least a small bit of arousal building. Life is more exciting that way. And also just kind of like that, if you're a lovesick teenage romantic idealist. But as he sighs, tipping back his glass for another sip, he realizes the alcohol probably isn't helping. And it's _glorious._

Feeling sort of hot for some reason, he undoes the first couple buttons on his shirt, tilting his head back slightly and fanning himself with one hand. The small breeze on his warm neck is soothing, and he finds himself wondering whether Mueller had ever imagined such things about him... He's not the most creative man ever, probably, but surely he cares? He has been so kind to him before, despite all of his complaining. Like only last week...

"Olivier, get your ass up out of bed," Mueller had grumbled, pulling on his ankle. The prince whined and balled fists into the mattress in protest.

Wait. No, not that time.

Yes, yes, it was two weeks ago. They'd just gone shopping on Vainqueur Street, and Mueller had begrudgingly carried all of the prince's heaviest bags, despite complaining the entire time that they would be a horrible hindrance in the case that his cover was blown and he actually found himself in need of a bodyguard. They had just then reached Dreichels Plaza. 

"Don't worry," Olivier had assured him, patting his arm. The large stack of boxes he had in his bag-laden arms wobbled precariously for an instant before Mueller rebalanced himself with annoyed but trained ease. "No one will ever suspect two handsome young men such as ourselves of being anything more than two ordinary teenage lovers on a romantic date in the capital." He winked, smiling coyly.

"Ugh," Mueller groaned, face nearly falling onto the stack of packages as he walked, "Just end me now."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Mueller." A familiar sweet scent drifted through the air. "Come, share a crepe with me."

Mueller sighed. "And how exactly am I supposed to eat anything while carrying all this?" 

"Benches exist, you know," Olivier had pointed out helpfully, then a playful smirk swept across his face. "Surely you wouldn't mind sitting next to your dearest friend and sharing a sweet indulgence together, no?"

The brunette had turned abruptly and picked up the pace, walking briskly towards the palace gates.

"...Where are you going?"

"Away from your nonsense," Mueller answered, not turning back.

"W-wait. Mueller!" The prince hurried after him, trying to catch up. Had he overdone it again? But teasing him was so much fun...

But, no, that wasn't the kind thing Mueller had done either. His mind is wandering so terribly now, and he stares into his rapidly emptying glass with a bit of dizziness.

Olivier sighs, setting his less than half full glass on the table beside him, laying his arms on the arm rests, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Every time he tries to close the distance between him and Mueller, the same thing happens. Cruel, cruel annoyance and denial.

But he can't be that annoying to Mueller, he thinks. After all, he protects him daily, not just doing his job grudgingly all the time. They played together as children. They know each others' histories, even the parts they hadn't lived through together. They have serious conversations, sometimes, about their respective futures and pasts.

They had been lying on their backs in the grass in a palace garden one evening, looking up at the stars. The bright lights of the city obscured so many of them, to Olivier's constant disappointment, but they were still beautiful. It was a quiet night, with only an occasional gentle breeze.

"Olivier," he'd asked, "Do you think I could ever surpass my father?"

The question was so sudden and uncharacteristic, the prince blinked, turning to look at him. Mueller was simply staring up at the stars, face perhaps slightly pensive but largely unreadable as ever.

Could he? He had seen Mueller spar with his father before, and although Mueller was an unreasonably talented swordsman for his young age, Olivier knew without a doubt that his father must have been too. In every training match he had seen between them, his father swiped his clever, skillful, full strength attacks aside as if he were a lion batting away a playful cub. Rumors of the Thunder God's prowess on the battlefield were of a completely frightening sort, as of course they should be since he was the man responsible for protecting the life of the Emperor. The title itself said quite enough about the strength of the man.

Yet, still, he believed in Mueller. "Yes," he replied after a few moments. "If anyone can, it's you."

"How can you say that so easily? You've seen the way he sees through every attack I throw at him. I'm eighteen already and I can't land a single hit. It's shameful," he said, a bitter tone to his voice.

"I know," Olivier had said, "but you train so hard, every single day. You never take a break. Eventually, you'll have to get there."

"He trains just as hard," Mueller had sighed with a grimace. "Harder, actually. Every day of his entire life. Age doesn't even seem be slowing him down at all yet. How can I compete with that?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "But I believe in you."

Mueller turned his head to face him at this, eyeing him curiously. Oh, even then, over a year ago, the open, wondering look had given him butterflies. But he didn't have the courage, Mueller had felt so much older than him then, and so he just smiled.

The brunette returned the smile, if only slightly, then looked back up at the sky. "...Thank you," he said simply, then sighed. "I guess I don't really have any choice but to just keep getting back up."

"Well, you could lay here with me for a little while longer," Olivert had quipped as he lay a hand on Mueller's shoulder, his eyes on the stars.

Mueller had groaned, shutting his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Olivier had laid there looking at the stars with him for a while longer, but the pounding in his chest made picking out constellations just a bit difficult.

The prince sighs, heart pounding again now with the memory. It was just an ordinary tale of two friends supporting each other through their personal struggles, Olivier knows this, he has read lots of books on romance, and surely Mueller has only ever expressed platonic feelings of friendship for him at the most. But... but, everything is always so much brighter with him in the room, even when he's being dragged off to some awful task like manners lessons, or being stopped from sneaking out of an especially stuffy dinner party. Just seeing Mueller, standing there, arms folded, hair sticking out in a barely acceptable fashion no matter how much anyone combs it, makes his heart feel so much more at ease.

Even long before he had these feelings, it always had.

It had not been long since his mother's death. New to the palace, Olivier was so overcome with grief that he could barely function. He had spent the day shutting himself in his quarters, refusing visits from his attendants, eating very little and hiding under the thick blankets of his far-too-large new bed. He had spent the better part of a month like this. When sleep came, so did the nightmares with it, and so he just laid there, alternating between listless and hollow and hysterically crying. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted his mother back.

Why had he been of royal blood? Why had his father done this to her? He should have known involving himself with a commoner would put her in danger; he should have protected her better, and yet...

He didn't want to be a prince at all, much less the _crown prince_ that he suddenly was. He didn't want to live all alone in a big palace like this, with servants and minders and lessons. He just wanted to sing with his mom again while they cooked up a big pot of stew, chopping potatoes, playing and laughing with the neighbors' children. He wanted to play his mom a song on the lute again and see her nearly cry because she was so proud of him. He loved her _so much._ His life with her had been so happy.

Now he was in a box. A large, pristinely decorated, horribly empty box. He sobbed, clutching the edge of his covers to his mouth, muffling the sound so his attendants wouldn't come and fuss over him again. He hated this. He hated this place. Everything was so lonely, so empty...

A knock came at his door. He pulled the covers all the way over his head.

"Prince Olivert," an aged female voice said as she opened the door. It was one of his attendants. He did not budge. "You have a visitor."

The footsteps were different than usual. Olivier peeked up tentatively over the edge of his blanket. The door closed and Mueller stood alone in his royal bedroom, wearing a dark vest and light shirt, hair messy and arms folded lightly as their eyes met. He was the only familiar thing he'd seen in weeks.

"It's me, Olivier," he said, and the young boy could feel his guard dropping. He sat up, letting the blankets fall to his lap. "Or... I guess I should say Prince Olivert, now--"

A pang of hurt ran through the boy's chest. "Don't call me that," the blonde had said, voice shaking. The tears were still falling, and he balled fists at his sides into the duvet. "Please," he begged. "That isn't my name. My name is Olivier Lenheim."

"I'm sorry," Mueller had said earnestly, walking towards where he lay at one side of the bed. "Olivier, I'm so sorry." The words took on a painful weight, and the blonde looked up at him only to see an expression that matched.

_Why didn't you protect her instead,_ he'd shouted at Mueller the last time they'd met. No... No, he'd been wrong. She wouldn't have wanted that. She wanted her son to live.

Olivier bowed his head in shame and shook it, tears falling rapidly to the covers. "I'm sorry," he choked out, shaking.

Before he knew it, Mueller's arms were wrapped around him, pulling him into the older boy's broad chest. "No," the brunette protested, "I should have protected her too. I should have protected you both. But I couldn't... It's all my fault."

Olivier felt the tears falling faster now, hot trails streaming down his face, and he wrapped his arms around Mueller's back as he cried into the boy's vest, shaking his head. "It's not your fault," he'd said, voice unsteady, "it's Father's fault. If it weren't for him--"

"He loved her, Olivier."

He'd heard this before. From his father, from the servants, even from his mother herself. He didn't believe them. He couldn't believe them.

"He shouldn't have," he had concluded, and Mueller did not dissent. Instead he had just held the younger boy in his arms, his own tears falling on Olivier's pajama-clad shoulder until both of them had finally stopped crying.

The next morning, a small weight had lifted, even if just a tiny bit.

Olivier is drinking down the rest of his glass now, wiping away tears. Since the boy first came into his life those many years ago, Mueller has always been there for him. Always.

Does he know how much this means to him? Does he know how deeply Olivier appreciates all that he's done for him? How much he loves Mueller?

_He loves Mueller._ There's no dancing around it in his mind anymore, and as he thinks the words they feel like the rightest, most irrevocable truth Olivier has ever known. _I love him._

He holds the words in his mind, the chills of culminating realization sweeping through his warm, hazy body, his heart aching. The feelings are overflowing now, especially after he empties his glass.

"I love Mueller," he whispers aloud to himself, and he almost feels like crying again. It's all so intense, so overwhelming, he feels like his heart could explode.

Mueller doesn't know, does he? He has no idea how much Olivier cares for him. How much he needs him, how much he appreciates him, how much he _loves_ him...

He... He needs to tell him. Mueller has to know.

But he's afraid, still. What if he doesn't understand? What if he doesn't feel the same way? But... no, the thought of Mueller going on without knowing how much he is truly loved is suddenly far too much to bear. He pours another half-full glass, drinking it down quickly for courage.

As he sets the glass down, the distant plink is lost in a whirl of sudden vertigo. Olivier grips the arms of his chair until it passes, and when it does, suddenly he finds himself no longer doubting.

There's no way Mueller won't understand. Olivier has the power of love on his side. There is nothing that true love, love that will stop at nothing, can't conquer. Surely, Mueller feels the same. His chest rushes with anticipation, and he rises out of his chair and onto unsteady feet, crossing his room to the door.

It takes him a little while to get his door open, and he giggles til he cries, finding the ordeal incredibly amusing. But then he's outside, in the long hallway, making his way as quietly as possible down to the fork that leads to the guest wing, hand on the wall for support. Everything is waving around him, and each of his feet seem to have minds of their own, but he presses forward, his fervent love for Mueller a guiding focus that carries him on.

Mueller is staying in his assigned guest room in the palace tonight, having extra specialized training to undergo in the palace now that he is getting older. Olivier would absolutely try to find his way to the other end of the city to tell Mueller how he feels, but he's so glad he doesn't have to.

_This is it,_ he thinks as he reaches Mueller's door, hand hovering over the doorknob. _I'm going to tell him._

He can feel Mueller's joyful embrace around him already, and with a surge of confident courage, he opens the door.

Except the door is locked. He jiggles the knob again; still locked. A rustling sound comes from inside Mueller's room, and quick footsteps, and suddenly Mueller himself is looking at him from his cracked open door, sword in hand. He sighs and sets the sword down, then looks the prince over.

Oh, he's _beautiful._ His mouth falls slightly open as he takes in the image of Mueller, warm and groggy, wearing only a sleeveless nightshirt and shorts, staring at him with weary concern.

"Olivier, it's the middle of the night. What do you want?"

The prince closes and opens his mouth, suddenly having lost his words. Everything about the boy is incredibly distracting, especially his bare, muscular arms. "I-" he starts, fumbling for something at all to say, but Mueller cuts him off.

"You smell like... wine." His brows furrow, and his expression changes from concern to something akin to mild, incredulous anger. "Aidios, Olivier, are you _drunk?_ "

Olivier presses a finger to his lips and shushes him. "It's okay," he says in a hushed tone, rocking slightly on his heels. 

"It's okay my ass," Mueller swears, looking him up and down. "You're underage. Just because you're a prince, that doesn't mean you can go ahead and do whatever you want--"

Oh, poor Mueller, he is focusing on all the wrong things right now.

"Shhh," Olivier whispers loudly. "Let me come in. Please?"

Mueller frowns, opening the door for him to enter. "Fine, but we are going to talk about this later."

The prince walks into Mueller's room, a spring in his step, the door closing behind him. The lecture can wait. He has a _purpose._

"Mueller," he begins, before the brunette can open his mouth to speak, "I have something really.... Really important to tell you, right now," he says, words overlapping a bit, though he doesn't notice. He stares up into Mueller's concerned eyes in the dimly lit room, a lamp near the door the only light. His breath catches in his throat. _Oh, Mueller..._

Mueller frowns, folding his arms, still looking over the prince rather warily. "What is it?" 

"Mueller, my love," he begins. "You're so beautiful. Perfect. Amazing," all that he can manage to say is a string of nearly incoherent, gushing compliments, and Mueller puts a hand on the side of his own face. "I needed to... To see you," he continues, trying to get to the point.

"Okay..." Mueller replies with a groan. "Dare I ask why?"

"Because," Olivier starts, staring up at him with wide, longing eyes. Oh, looking at Mueller, the words are so much harder to say, and his senses are overwhelmed with the beautiful sight of him, so close he could touch him, and feelings of love and longing ache heavily in his chest. "I need you," he says, with the barest honesty he's ever given.

Mueller's expression softens a little, and Olivier finds his heart dancing in response. The brunette lets out a small soft laugh. "You need me in the middle of the night? For what?"

"I need you all the time," the prince says. "For everything. I don't know what I would do without you. Mueller," he says, adding his name just because he wants to say it, and the name rolls off his tongue with a distinct pleasure as he looks up into his eyes, unconsciously curling his fingers into the neck of his vest.

Mueller sighs, head hanging, hands on his hips. "You're so drunk, I can barely understand you," he says, shaking his head. "Are you trying to thank me, or something?"

Olivier nods firmly. "I'm so grateful, Mueller, for everything. Always," he says, tears in his eyes. "I need you to know."

Mueller stares at him, expression open and soft. "This is... some way to go about it," he says with amusement, but looks genuinely appreciative.

The prince nearly melts at the way Mueller is looking at him. _It's love,_ he thinks, he feels, he _knows_ , and now is the time. He has to tell him.

He puts his hand on the brunette's shoulder, partly for dramatic emphasis, partly because he can't resist touching him any longer, but mostly just to keep himself from falling on his too-shaky legs.

"I love you," he finally says, slurring his words. "Mueller, I love you."

Mueller frowns at him, rolls his eyes, then pushes the prince's hand off of him. Olivert wobbles forward, nearly falling straight into him, but he is caught by both of Mueller's hands on his shoulders.

"You're drunk," he says again, looking him up and down in disbelief. Olivier feels the path of his eyes on him as if they were a physical touch. He looks up at Mueller's face. He's beautiful. He's close. He's _Mueller._ "How much did you have?"

Olivier shakes his head firmly, probably quite a bit too firmly. "No," he says. "No, you don't understand. I love you," he says on the verge of tears, heart aching, overwhelming emotions coursing through every cell in his body. Then, before either of them knows it, he's pressed his lips to Mueller's, hands beside his neck, leaning into him.

For a brief blissful moment all there is in the world is Mueller. Everything spins around him, except Mueller, who is like the center of the entire universe, grounding him, drawing him to him with the sheer force of his gravity. His lips are soft and slightly chapped, he smells like light sweat, soap and steel, and he's _perfect_ , he's Olivier's everything. His heart soars; he's never felt so completely in love before.

Mueller stumbles back, breaking the kiss. Olivier's heart sinks, his wine-addled mind lost in confusion, and the world spins unevenly until he's forced to fall back into a sitting position on the floor.

Mueller is completely silent. He stares down at the prince, bringing his hand to his lips in utter disbelief. Olivier looks up at him, sad but still hopeful, and Mueller still just stares.

"…Get out of my room," he finally says, voice shaking.

No. No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Didn't Mueller feel how much he loved him? Hadn't he always shown that he cared? How could this... This _can't_ be happening.

"Mueller, I..."

_"Out,"_ he says more firmly, voice tinged with some kind of dark emotion. "Now."

The tears start falling as he stumbles to his feet. None of this feels real. His body shakes unsteadily as if it weren't even his own, his chest aching painfully, his stomach burning bitter. Mueller isn't looking at him. Mueller is hurt. _Everything_ hurts. Olivier brings a hand to his face, gritting his teeth against the pain, then shuffles out the door and into the hall. He can barely register the click of the door behind him.

\---

Mueller sits back onto his bed, stunned and confused and a bit angry. Olivier had _kissed_ him. He was drunk off his ass and he fucking kissed him. His first kiss had been stolen by that... that complete _idiot_.

He touches his fingers to his lips, still reeling. What was he _thinking_? A night of drinking and suddenly he was telling Mueller he loved him and kissing him? It was... It was ridiculous. The jokes had finally gone too far. Either that, or he'd gotten so drunk he actually believed he was in love with him... The thought brought an awful feeling with it, so he shoved it aside. He was just... He was just drunk. But that was no excuse.

Mueller hadn't wanted this to be what his first kiss was like. To be honest, he hadn't really given the idea much thought, as there had never really been anyone he'd wanted to kiss, but _this_ was definitely not what he'd wanted. The prince had absolutely reeked of wine, the scent on his breath and just an overpowering aura about him, and moreover it was _the prince_. He is only sixteen, and Mueller, at nineteen, is nearly an adult now. Surely he realized this? So why did he...

He groans, falling back onto the mattress. He'd figured out long ago that it was pretty much pointless to wonder why Olivier did just about anything. He wipes his lips on the back of his hand, feeling strangely uneasy, then frowns deeply and burrows back underneath the covers.

Olivier will find his way back to his room alright. The palace is full of guards and attendants, so if anything happens, he'll be fine... Right?

Suddenly, despite his anger and frustration, he finds himself worrying. No, if the prince were drunk enough to kiss him, wouldn't he also be drunk enough to fall out a window, or try to climb something tall and hurt himself? Cursing, Mueller gets out of bed, throws on some pants and a jacket and grabs his sword, sneaking down the hallway.

\---

Olivier sobs, body violently shaking with tears as he stumbles down the hallway. Nothing makes sense. His heart aches, crumbling, terrified and filled with pain.

How had this gone so wrong? His feelings are pure, true, honest. He loves Mueller more than life itself. All he had wanted was to be close to him, to let him know exactly how much he meant to him. And yet, he'd stopped him, and he'd looked at him with those cold, dark eyes. He'd made him leave. 

_I'm such a fool. Such a complete and utter idiot._ The floor seems to wave under his disobedient feet, as if the world around him is rejecting him as well. He falls to his knees in the deserted hallway, hot tears splattering onto the cold marble tile, just kneeling there bent over crying for a few moments.

There's nothing but pain and drunken confusion as he finds his way back to his feet and eventually into his darkened room again, falling onto his bed and clutching the covers. He cries silently, burying his face in the blankets in the darkened room, feeling just so completely wrong.

_I'm drunk_ , he thinks bitterly, _I'm drunk and I'm stupid._

After a while he finally falls asleep, still fully dressed, blankets tangled awkwardly around him. He doesn't see Mueller peek into his open doorway to make sure he got there safely, or hear him latch the door shut before leaving.

\---

The next morning, everything still hurts, but in a much more physical way. The morning light through his curtains is absolutely blinding, and he has a splitting headache of a kind he's never had before. A knock sounds at his door, far, far too loud, and he groans loudly in response, unable or unwilling to conjure up any words.

"Olivert," a sweet, concerned voice says as the door opens and then shuts behind them. The prince forces himself to look up at his stepmother Priscilla, his head throbbing. "Oh, good, you're awake."

Olivert just groans again, softer this time, slumping his head back onto his pillow. She walks to his bedside and looks down at him, frowning in a pitying, genuinely concerned kind of way.

"You must not be feeling well," she says, reaching out and brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "Mueller told me you'd been drinking last night." Olivier stiffens, feeling a sense of dread. "Oh, no, please don't worry. I'm not angry. I didn't tell your father, either," she adds with a conspiratorial smile. "I'm sure what you're going through right now is punishment enough."

Olivert manages to nod weakly, feeling gratitude and a bit of relief through the throbbing pain. "Thank you," he says, throat a bit dry.

"You need some water. I'll be right back," Priscilla says, gliding off towards the bathroom.

She makes him drink two tall glasses of water, one after the other, and his headache dissipates just a touch. "Thank you," he says again, sitting up in bed. "It's alright, though. You don't need to... This is my fault. I can have a servant bring me things."

"Well, alright," she says with a sympathetic look, rising. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'll be fine," he says, then groans as his stomach churns something horrible. He _has_ to make it to the bathroom. "I just... don't think you want to be around for this," he adds, holding his upset stomach. 

"Oh dear," she sighs. "Yes, alright, I'll leave you to it, then. Hang in there," she says, patting his arm, then makes her way out of his bedroom.

\---

The next few hours are not pleasant, and absolutely not some of Prince Olivert's finest moments. Once he's gotten most of the alcohol out of his system, and had some healing arts administered to him, he's left with a dull throbbing headache and the memory of what happened last night.

It was... profoundly stupid, he realizes. He'd stumbled into Mueller's room in the middle of the night, completely wasted, and expected him to return his feelings.

What about Mueller's feelings? He hadn't even considered them. He'd been so wrapped up in his own feelings, so literally drunk on love he hadn't even thought to ask himself how Mueller felt.

Lying on his back on his bed, he picks up a spare pillow and puts it over his eyes, making a sad noise of frustration and regret.

He'd kissed him, and Mueller hadn't returned his feelings. Mueller didn't love him, at least not in the same way. Was this... it, then? Was their friendship over? Had he finally gone too far?

He cries into the pillow, using it to muffle the sound so no one will hear. He's done it. He's ruined their friendship. How could he be so stupid?

A while later, just as he has finished crying, a servant comes to bring him a meal, and he eats what he can find the will to, picking at his food.

Olivier feels that he needs to do _something_ , anything to fix this. His heart is broken, and the thought of seeing Mueller again, knowing he'd been so plainly rejected, makes his chest ache terribly. But the thought of not seeing him again, or having him simply stand guard in awkward silence daily, all of their familiar companionship lost, is far, far worse.

He puts down his spoon and gets out of bed, setting the tray on his bedstand. Swallowing all his bitter hurt, he realizes he has to apologize. He takes a quick shower, gets dressed, and leaves his room to go find Mueller.

\---

Mueller is in the training hall, running drills. Olivier watches as he approaches the doorway, seeing him repeat slash after slash, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. His pulse is pounding, horribly nervous, but he stands in the doorway anyway, posture slightly slumped.

Mueller is expertly trained and notices him standing there immediately. He turns to face him, lowering his sword. A brief hint of something like relief flashes through his eyes, and then his brow sets, his expression heavy, breaking eye contact.

Olivier steps toward him hesitantly, stopping to stand a few feet away. "I'm sorry," he says, looking down at his folded hands before peeking up at Mueller.

Mueller sighs, running his hand back through his hair. "That was completely out of line, even for you," he says, frowning. 

"I know," Olivier nods, heart sinking even further.

"I don't... I don't really want to talk about this," he groans, sheathing his sword at his hip. "But Aidios, why did you... I just..." he trails off for a moment, then covers his eyes and forehead with a hand, looking pained. "...That was my first kiss."

Olivier takes a breath in, looking at Mueller, whose covered face is flushed a bit, but he does not look happy. Though perhaps last night, when he was drunk on love and thinking of nothing but himself, he may have found the idea of being Mueller's first kiss appealing, incredibly exciting even, finding this out right now only fills him with heavy guilt. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "I'm so sorry."

Mueller lets out a breath, dropping his hand to his side, but still looking downward. Olivier bites his lip.

"I was so drunk, and the wine made me act completely crazy... I'm so sorry Mueller, I won't ever let anything like this ever happen again," he says, clenching his fists at his side, then lies, a sacrifice made for their friendship. "I wouldn't even want to."

Mueller looks up at him, expression still disapproving but softer. "It's... not okay," he says quietly, "but thank you. For apologizing."

Olivier nods, looking at him with concern and guilt.

"I think I'd like to be alone today," Mueller continues, glancing at nothing in particular. "And I'd like to try and forget last night ever happened."

The prince nods again. "Yes," he agrees, "I won't bring it up again."

Mueller nods back, closing his eyes, then slowly draws his sword. "Good... I'll get back to training, then," he says, turning his back to the prince and falling into stance.

Olivier takes a regretful look at him before turning and leaving the way he came.

\---

It's not easy, spending the rest of the day with nothing but these terrible feelings and avoiding studies he can't focus on. He lays around his quarters feeling sorry for himself for a while longer, but eventually he has to get up and walk around.

"Olivert!" a soft, young voice calls to him as he enters the royal drawing room in search of a new window to maybe stare blankly out of. The prince turns, looking down at Cedric, his sweet four-year-old brother, who has stopped playing with his table of toy trains, smiling at him as he enters the room. He sets the train car in his hand down and runs over to him, obviously wanting to give him a hug in greeting as he nearly always does. Olivert smiles sadly, but kneels and lets his brother embrace him, hugging him back, the empty ache in his chest alleviated just slightly at the innocent show of affection.

"I finished my lessons early," he says brightly, looking up into Olivier's eyes eagerly. "Do you want to play?"

"I'm sorry, Cedric, but I'm not feeling well today," he says with a sigh, patting his head affectionately.

"Oh," the boy says, looking disappointed. "Mama told me you were sick. That's not good. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I was, but I wanted to sit in a reading chair and look out over the city. It's so boring being sick in my room."

"Well, okay," Cedric nods. "I can sit with you."

"No, don't let me get in the way of your fun now," Olivier says, standing back up. "The citizens of Heimdallr won't get to work on time if you don't run the trains. You have a very important job to do."

His brother straightens his posture, nodding curtly as he's been trained to do in his etiquette lessons. It's horribly cute. "Right!" he agrees, then walks back to his train set.

Olivert finds a favorite high-backed armchair at the far corner of the room to curl up into, plucking a book at random off a nearby shelf to use as cover in case someone questions his behavior, and looks out the tall window at the vast Heimdallr skyline, feeling numb.

He still loves Mueller, so much, but Mueller doesn't love him. If this were one of the romance novels he's so fond of reading, this would be where he'd be broken yet heal stronger, and suddenly one day not long from now, Mueller would have a glorious change of heart and throw himself into his arms, and--

This isn't a cheap paperback. This is his life. Mueller just... doesn't feel the same, and that's the end of it. But they're still friends, somehow, and despite the pain tearing him apart, he thanks Aidios for giving him that much.

It's still not easy, feeling this way for the next few weeks, either. The first few days he spends in Mueller's company are awkward at best and incredibly painful at worst, and he cries himself to sleep some nights. But as the weeks and months pass, as things between them return to the way they once were and life takes its course, it gets easier. He resolves to find a way to accept his own feelings. He loves Mueller. That itself isn't going to change. But maybe, just maybe he can love him as a dear friend instead. It's the best he can do for the boy that he loves.


End file.
